Sherlock, the Bored Ghost
by rei-ko-naissance
Summary: What if Sherlock never met John in his lifetime? What if John had a special gift, a sixth sense? What happens when you have a bored Sherlock haunting you? - May change rating and genre in future.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hello again

Yes, it is perfectly justified to kill me for not finishing the other fics and then suddenly coming up with this one out of the blue. Well, what can I say, I had a lot on my plate.

This one? It's a Sherlock BBC fanfic with a rather weird twist. It's based in the same world but the story plays out in a completely different way.

Read and review, based on that I'll decide to continue or not. A lot of things are still not certain so I might decide to change them later on. Anyway, no point on stretching this a/n any longer.

I hope you enjoy this one.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Sherlock then I wouldn't be half dead waiting for season 3.

* * *

'No, please…!'

'Please! Don't…!'

'Stop it… Please…!'

John Watson woke up with a start, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his breath coming in short gasps. Turning his head to the side he glared hard at seemingly nothing but a point hovering in midair.

'How many times do I have to tell you all that I cannot help you? How hard is it to get that in your heads?' He heaved a sigh, realizing that it would be pointless to attempt sleeping now, and so swinging his legs off the side of the bed he reached for the walking stick that was leaning against the bed stand. Running his fingers over it, he leaned back and let out another sigh, closing his eyes as the air left his lungs.

It had been a few months since John had returned from military service, and he had returned with quite a souvenir. Running a hand over the scar on his shoulder, he gripped the walking stick and stood up, eased his slippers on and hobbled his way to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, all the while muttering and grumbling about how rude '_they'_ were and how '_they'_ lacked any manners whatsoever.

'You know, there are people who actually get paid to do such things.' he said out loud again, 'Why bother me?'

All of a sudden a seemingly empty spot got occupied by a translucent being, garbed in white from head to toe. John did a sharp intake of air as he noticed the being, as if shocked, but then immediately replaced that with an expression of irritation.

'No, whatever you want, I can't do it. I don't care if it's important to you or that it is the reason you can't cross over, but no! I can't and most certainly will not help you. So, please, do me a terribly great favor and LEAVE.' By the end of that John was positively panting, deep lines forming on his forehead due to the thunderous scowl that now dominated that rather pleasant face of his.

He turned around with a flourish of his dressing gown, placed his mug on the desk and marched off to his bed where he promptly fell face-first and shut his eyes, trying to drown out the _distractions_ around him.

'Sod it!' It was nearly dawn and the white being was still there, having chosen to ignore the rant that John has all but shouted at him. He turned his head to study the spirit that belonged to some unfortunate soul that had met his end but was still stuck in the world of the living for one or another reason. But now that John studied him, he noticed that this time it was different from the rest that generally invited themselves into his apartment. For starters, his face didn't look like it had been used as a punching bag. No, this one had particularly sharp features; sharp cheekbones, pointed nose, clear grey-blue eyes and, though it ticked John off terribly to admit it, he was tall.

'Fine.' John took a deep breath and, and facing the other being or whatever it was directly continued, 'Fine. Let's hear it then. What do you want?'

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' was all he said in an amazingly deep baritone.

'What?' John blinked a few times before reiterating that, 'What?'

'Afghanistan,' the being paused, and then continued, 'Or Iraq?' he finished, much slower than before.

'Af-Afghanistan, but how did you… Wait, is this one of those ESPs you all get? Is that it?'

'No.' came the simple reply.

'Then who told you that?' John asked, his voice going up a notch.

'Your tan told me that.' came the abrupt and instant reply.

'My tan?' John voiced his query while his eyebrows twisted in a quizzical way, 'How…'

'Your haircut and the way you hold yourself suggest military. We can tell from the mug sitting on your desk that you are a medical man, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists – you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you do not look for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic – wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.' the tall being finished with sharp and emphasized _'kkh' _at the end.

John merely blinked and let his mouth hand open for a few seconds before clamping it back up.

When he could speak again he said, 'You're trying to impress me by using your ESP… Very clever… But let me tell you that this is not going to get me to help you. Ha ha ha no.'

'While you're correct about this being an ESP,' again with the exaggerated _p_, 'it is only so because I'm a genius. So do not, by any means, go about thinking that just about any other _ordinary _person is like this.'

'And so? That still doesn't make me change my mind. Anyway, if that's that then I'll be going back to sleep now. Good night.'

*bang*

'No… Please…'

*bang* *bang*

'Please! Don't shoot!'

*bang*

'No!' John woke up screaming again, but this time to the smell of gunpowder and a sizzling noise coming from his right. He turned around just in time to see his gun, hovering in midair, shoot yet another bullet into the wall to complete what seemed to be a smiley face made with bullet holes.

'What the _hell_ are you doing?!' John shouted, grimacing as he heard the hurried knocks on his door. People worried about his well-being, obviously.

'Bored.' Said the brunette in a flat tone.

'WHAT?!' John all but screamed in frustration as he made his way to the door, pleading his brain to come up with a seemingly logical explanation for this without sounding like a total nut bag.

An hour's worth of apologies later, John was back on his bed with the gun safely in the drawer along with his laptop. A furious scowl adorned his face as he let out another shaky breath.

'I'm bored.' said the brunette once more, as if the smiley made with bullet holes wasn't enough.

'Bored? You're bored?! Why should I give a damn about that? Why the hell am I supposed to help you out? We don't even know each other!'

'I know you're an army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? Oh, and the name's Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you.' he finished in all but one breath, his grey-blue eyes twinkling expectantly.

Once again John was rendered speechless. How on earth did this person know all that? Especially about his sibling, since there was nothing around him suggesting that he had one, and definitely nothing that hinted at alcoholism. He shook his head in defeat, a small smile gracing his features as they visibly softened down.

Ever since he had gotten this _gift _all he had encountered so far were unfortunate souls asking him to help them cross over. Never had he met one such as this brunette who now stood before him in all his splendid height. As he replayed the conversation in his mind, something made John change his mind, something that made John want to go down this new path that life was leading him to. With a final sigh and a nod of his head he looked straight into the eyes of the brunette in front.

'Alright then, what do you want?'

* * *

**A/N: **And, that's that. Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hello again

Here's chapter two. It's short because I have a lot of work and I'm still writing cuz if I don't then all these plot bunnies will eat me so yeah.

Once again, please read and review. I'd be gratefully grateful.

**Disclaimer: **No, I don't own Sherlock BBC because I'm broke.

* * *

John was currently sitting in a cab, his face as displeased as ever. Next to him the tall brunette, or Sherlock, was sitting with a rather excited air around him, looking out of the window now and then. Looking back on how the events played out, a vein on his temple bulged slightly as he tried to fight the irritation all this was causing. _Mustn't get mad, _he repeated to himself.

You see, when John had finally given in and had asked for what it was that the brunette, or Sherlock, wanted, he had been expecting the regular 'I need to talk to my so-and-so; I need to tell them something'. Instead, the request was quite peculiar indeed, and one that didn't have an explanation.

'I need you to go somewhere with me.' was all Sherlock said.

'Go where?' John asked the obvious question.

'Not now, now is too early. I'll be back in a few hours.' said Sherlock before walking through John's bedroom wall and thus effectively disappearing.

_What?_ Was all the poor doctor could think of, as he sat on his bed, trying to understand the whole situation. A moment ago this man was blowing holes into his bedroom wall because he was so _bored, _and now that John had finally agreed to help him out, he says he'll come back later? It would be an understatement to say that the doctor was not pleased, for he was positively furious, and it was barely five in the morning. By the time he calmed down, the sun was high in the sky, and John had already had his breakfast, and was currently seated on his armchair by the window, going through that day's paper.

'Hmm… There's been another one.' he mumbled as he browsed through an article about a suicide that had taken place earlier. The police were now calling it 'serial suicides' apparently, since the victims had taken the same poison and were all found in places they had no links to, though the term 'serial suicide' was a bit baffling. As he looked on, there was a photo of the lead detective working on the case, along with the dead woman's photo. John merely shrugged at this and set the paper aside for he had a much more important thing to do.

'Sherlock… Holmes' he mumbled, as he typed in those words into the search bar, hitting the enter key of his laptop with a little more force than he should have. At once, the screen was filled with search results from all over the internet. After browsing for a while he came across something that caught his interest. 'Science of Deduction' it said as he clicked on the link and waited for the page to load. When it did, John let out a shaky breath he didn't know he had been holding, slightly puzzled as to why he was nervous about this, and looked through the website.

'The Science of Deduction – by Sherlock Holmes' it read, 'I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. I'm not going into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please.' John paused here, his eyebrows shooting up as he re-read 'consulting detective'. Now there was a term he hadn't heard of, and quite correctly so since this Sherlock person appeared to have invented the bloody thing. Brushing that aside to ponder on later, he read on, 'This is what I do. I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth. If you need assistance, contact me and we'll discuss its potential.'

Chuckling a little, John leaned back, rubbing his temples while he did so. This Sherlock person seemed like one hell of a condescending prick, something John had probably picked up on earlier on. Of all the people he would offer help to, it just had to be someone like this. From what John understood from the website, and from the other links that were there, this man was a detective, consulting or whatever, and considering how he had deduced John's life story, he seemed like a rather good one. But why would a man such as that want John's help?

'Oh…' John breathed, of course, who else would he have gone to? From the looks of it the man was dead, and as far as John's memory went, there weren't many, if at all any except him, that could see and communicate with spirits like that, and though all this didn't make the doctor feel any comfortable, he was sure about one thing, that he definitely was _not _insane, because there was no way his mind would come up with someone as complicated and annoying as this Sherlock Holmes. Sighing for the umpteenth time, John turned to the window, gazing out at the blue-grey sky, before turning his attention back to the computer screen. There was an article that had previously caught his attention. It was a missing-person report with the brunette's photo right in the middle, keen eyes seemingly staring at the viewer. John closed his eyes and leaned back, wondering what to do with this piece of information. If he could see the brunette's spirit then most likely he was dead, but the report had been made rather recently, which meant that his family had still not given up hope. His gaze once again fell on the brunette staring at him from the computer screen and he decided that the Holmes family would have to discover this themselves and that it wasn't his job to go about delivering such news to people anyway. He let out another long breath as he closed the laptop before clutching his walking stick and getting up, off the chair. He looked at the clock and hastened his pace; he had an appointment with the psychiatrist.

Forty-five minutes later he was sitting in his psychiatrist's office. A woman was seated in front of him, looking at him intently.

'So, how are you feeling, John?' and that's how it began, the long session with a woman who had a rather deep but pleasant voice, by the end of which a 'has trust issues' had been added to the long list of problems John had. When it was finally over, John thanked her, reconfirmed his next appointment and left.

It was nearly 4 in the evening when he returned, all thanks to an old friend he ran into, a Mike Stamford. Years ago they had trained at Barts together. They had a nice little chat over coffee, catching up on each other's lives and what not, and somewhere along the way Mike had asked John about his current whereabouts, who subsequently joked about not being able to afford London on an army pension.

'Ah, but you can't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I knew' Mike had commented at that, his bright face hoping to get a hearty chuckle out of the shorter man next to him, instead all he got out of the retired army doctor was a strained smile and an 'I'm not the John Watson you knew' in an undertone. Thankfully from there the conversation had steered back to affordable residences when Mike mentioned flat-shares.

'Come on, who'd want me as a flat mate?' was John's reply, the same strained smile etched across his face.

'You're the second person to say that to me.' Mike had laughed darkly while saying that, his expression going pensive. John didn't quite like the expression on his friend's face and decided to let it go and not indulge his curiosity. They both sat there a little while longer before Mike offered a visit to the hospital they'd both been trained at, which of course John did not deny.

John was brought out of his thoughts by the fluttering curtains, which of course were _fluttering _even though there wasn't any wind. At once his expression changed to a much sour and annoyed one and he heaved a sigh before speaking through his teeth, 'Yes, very clever. Now cut that out before I change my mind.'

And there, from behind the curtains the tall brunette stepped out, even though his legs weren't really visible, and stood with in relaxed pose.

'Ready?' he asked the doctor in a bored voice.

'Ready for what?' replied John, barely concealing his annoyance.

'Well I said I needed you to go somewhere…'

'Yes, I know _that._ Now will you tell me where?'

'I was just about to…'

'Well good… So go on then…'

'Brixton, Lauriston Gardens, come on.'

'What? Wait, Mr. Holmes…!'

'Sherlock, please.'

'Alright then, _Sherlock_, will you please tell me…' but there was no point in continuing for the man had already walked out of the door, or _through_ it. John, who had been sighing way too many times that day, once again, he let out a long breath through gritted teeth and zipping his jacket up, walked out of the room, closing the door with a rather loud bang behind him.

Once outside he noticed the other man was turning his head now and then, following the taxis passing by with his eyes. When he noticed John he all but ran to him and said, 'Get a cab!' in a hurried voice.

'Taxi!' John obliged, inwardly shaking his head and feeling sorry for himself. 'Brixton' he said once the cabbie stopped and got in.

_What are you getting yourself into, John?_

And thus that was how John ended up in a rather uncomfortable ride, all the way to Brixtion, without even the slightest explanation why, with a man who seemed too excited and fidgety, looking out of the window now and then. Then, for some reason, he turned his head to face John, and after a second or two pursed his lips and sighed.

'Okay, you've got questions.'

* * *

**A/N: **Another down. 'Ooh, I wonder where this is heading!' I say as I grin sarcastically because seriously I have no originality and I should just drown myself in cookies. Please review.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Ahoy matey!

Three updates in three days, you say? Ha ha no, don't bank on that. My update speed ranges from once a day to never, zilch, nada, zip.

But fear not, this story is something that I wanna continue... Even though this chapter seems a bit pointless and long and full of things that need not be there. Dear god, when I edit it, for I will edit it, it'll be better. I promise!

Anyway, for now, read and review! Please!

**Disclaimer: **No, I don't own Sherlock BBC because life's not fair like that.

* * *

'Okay, you've got questions.'

John turned his attention to the man sitting next to him, if ghosts could sit that is, and mentally debated whether punching this man would do any good. At best, his punch would go right through him, so he gave up that line of thought.

Instead he looked ahead to check if the driver was looking in his rear view or not and put his collar up to partially hide his mouth, a precaution he took so as to not seem like he was talking to himself, because that would surely not go well at all.

'Yeah, where are we going?' he said barely a whisper.

'Crime scene. Next?' said Sherlock matter-of-factly and turned the other way to avoid John's glare.

_Crime scene? What?_

'Who are you? What do you do?' Though John already knew the answer to that one, and by the looks of it he knew he won't be getting a straight answer out of this man anyway.

'What do you think?' Sherlock's reply was just as John expected.

'Very well, tell me what do you mean when you say you're a _consulting _detective.' John asked in return, passing a cursory glance at the cabbie again before turning back to Sherlock, expecting a surprised look from the other man. Instead, all he got was an expression that roughly read well-done-you.

'It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.' John swore he _felt _the pride emanating from Sherlock, _physically, _when he said that.

Struggling to keep himself from laughing John said in a strained whisper, 'But the police don't consult _amateurs.' _ And John felt a crackle next to him as Sherlock visibly bristled, then turned away, a sly smile on his face.

'When I met you today for the first time, I said – Afghanistan or Iraq – You looked surprised.'

'Yes, that was very clever…'

'Oh yes, _clever. _And then there's your brother…'

'Yes, how did you know that?'

'I didn't know, I saw. Your phone' John took his phone out of his pocket and looked at it as Sherlock went on, 'It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player – But you've got no accommodation of your own? You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then.' Sherlock then motioned him to flip it over, 'Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already.'

'The engraving…?' John whispered, running a thumb over the 'Harry Watson – from Clara xxx' written at the back of the device.

'Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father – This is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara,' he paused, 'Who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left _him_, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But _no_, he wanted rid of it – he left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch.' he paused again, looking thoughtful, 'You're looking for accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you _don't_ like his drinking.'

'How could you possibly know about the drinking?' John was all but staring at the man now. To anyone outside, or even to the cabbie, it would've seemed like John was glaring at something outside, when in reality his glare was trained at the man who was positively smiling right now.

'Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection – tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.' He paused, yet again, and then continued with much more emphasis, 'There you go, you see? You were right.'

'I was right? Right about what?'

'The police don't consult _amateurs._' Sherlock finished, as if he'd been waiting to say that line. The two men spent the next few seconds in silence with Sherlock basking in his successful attempt to prove to John his point, who in turn was looking rather flabbergasted and trying to figure out just how a man could think like that.

When he finally got over his shock, he said in a small voice, 'That was… _amazing._'

'You think so?' the other man said deadpan.

'Oh yes it was. It was extraordinary. It was _quite…_extraordinary.' John shook his head ever so slightly, still marveling about how the man could deduce things like the way he did. Never had he met a man like that, dead or alive, and John wondered whether this meeting would do him any good. He smiled again as he remembered his psychiatrist's advice from earlier on. '_John, you're a soldier. It will take you a while to settle down into civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.' _John had scoffed at that saying that nothing ever happened to him.

_Well, it's happening now. _

He broke out of his thoughts just in time to catch the brunette mumbling something.

'That's not what people normally say.' he said.

John blinked at that and added, 'What do people normally say?'

Sherlock looked at him hard and then added with a smirk, 'Piss off!'

John swore the cabbie gave him concerned look as he let loose a giggle, hurriedly concealing it in a fit of mock coughs and adding a 'Don't do that' in between. The rest of their journey was rather quiet and random, though as expected Sherlock didn't reveal anything that would even remotely interest John.

When they finally reached their destination Sherlock sped off while John was left paying the cabbie. When he caught up to the brunette, John said in between pants, 'You could've have waited…'

'Did I get anything wrong?' Sherlock said instead, earning a confused look from John whose brain finally clicked and he got the context.

'Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.' John said slowly as they walked along a pathway.

'Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.' Sherlock remarked, smiling to himself.

John paused for a bit, thinking of a satisfying way to break it to him, but then said anyway, 'Harry's short for Harriet.'

'Harry's your sister!' Sherlock exclaimed, scrunching his face up in disappointment.

'What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?' John went on unnoticed.

'Sister!' Sherlock ranted on, still not over the fact that he'd gotten something wrong.

'No, seriously,' John raised his voice up a notch as they neared what looked like a crime scene. An angry looking woman was manning the front and John had a very bad feeling about all this, 'What am _I_ doing here.'

'There's always something.' Clearly Sherlock wasn't over the previous matter and John decided to ignore the ranting brunette and focus on the scene in front of him instead. But all of a sudden he found the brunette standing behind a yellow tape, next to the angry looking woman with a head full of curls and a walkie-talkie in her hand. As John approached her she held up her hand signaling him to stop.

'Oh no, no, who are you?' she asked, giving him a glance over. John merely looked at Sherlock with a what-do-I-do-now face.

'Tell her you're my colleague.' he said with a bored look and drifted off to another side.

'Colleague?' John repeated.

'Who's colleague?' the woman in front of him inquired.

'Uhh… I'm Sherlock Holmes' colleague. Nice to meet you.' John smiled nervously.

'A colleague? How does _he_ get a colleague?' the woman scoffed, 'Er… Did he follow _you_ home?' but at that instant her walkie-talkie crackled up and a male voice shouted over the line, 'Donovan?'

'Er… There's some guy here claiming to be freak's colleague.' she said over the line. Almost the next second the line crackled up again.

'What?!' said the man,surprise evident in his voice, 'Are you sure?'

A few minutes later John was standing at the base of a staircase that went quite a way up. For some godly reason he had been allowed inside a crime scene, and though he had been lectured by the forensics in charge, he was now making his way up the flight of stairs, dressed in blue overalls and gloves.

'I can give you two minutes…' the man in front of him said as they made their way up. He had introduced himself as Detective Inspector Lestrade, and John had recognized him from the newspaper this morning. He was the detective in charge of investigating the _serial suicides. _

'Her name's Jennifer Wilson, hasn't been here for long, some kids found her.' The detective said, opening a door and letting John in who grimaced a little at the sight in front of him. The room was bare except for the woman who was lying on the floor face front. In front of him he noticed Sherlock was stock still, his eyes darting everything, taking the whole scene in.

'Shut up!' he suddenly exclaimed.

'What?' John said surprised and confused.

'I didn't say anything…' the detective inspector said in turn, looking as surprised and confused as john.

'You were thinking, it's annoying.' Sherlock said turning towards Lestrade who obviously couldn't hear him. Next he turned to John and said, 'Tell him that.'

John opened his mouth in silent protest but Sherlock's expression seemed unyielding, so John took in a shaky breath and said out loud, 'Er… Your thinking is annoying.' Trying to sound convinced by his words. But what happened next was completely unexpected as John watched the detective inspector's eyes grow wide in shock, though not in anger but because the words were so familiar to him. He walked up to John, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly with a strange expression on his face and promptly left.

'What the hell…' John breathed, but beside him Sherlock was already busy analyzing the scene before him.

'John,' he called out, 'I need you.'

John spent the next few minutes examining the victim's body as per Sherlock's instructions.

'Run your fingers over her coat… Good. Now wipe them off and run them under her collar... Have you done it? Good. Next, check her umbrella. Good… Hmm… slide her ring off and hold it under the light… Good. Now give me your phone… No, hold it up! You know I can't do that…'

At that moment the detective inspector walked in again, 'Got anything?'

'A little bit.' Sherlock said, smiling, and then turned to John expectantly who caught the queue a few seconds later, resulting in an awkward pause.

'Er… yeah a little bit.'

'Well go on then…' The detective inspector was standing by the door with his arms crossed. John looked at Sherlock in alarm, who smiled it off and said, 'Well go on Doctor.'

'Erm…' a small vein was bulging at his temple, 'Yeah cause of death is asphyxiation. Most likely she choked on her own vomit. Um, could be alcohol, possibly drugs…' but he trailed off because the detective inspector looked thoroughly disappointed.

'Come on, John,' Sherlock chided, 'You've read the papers…'

'So this is the fourth one then?' John said out loud, recalling the number of _serial_ suicides that had already taken place.

'Oh for heaven's sake, if you've got something else that's…' but John was listening to Sherlock now who had begun his own little rant and was trying his best to remember everything. When he finished, John turned towards the detective with a vacant face, and praying to the gods the see him through this, began his own version of that.

'Er… The victim appears to be in her thirties. Worked in the media going by the (alarming) shade of pink… And she was unhappily married because…' he faltered.

'The ring…' Sherlock offered.

'Oh yeah, yes, the ring…' John said scratching at his eyebrow.

'Her ring? Dear God, if you're just making this up…' the detective began.

'Er, hear me out…' _or I swear I'll forget it,_ 'Her ring, it's not polished like the rest of her jewelry but once you take it off you'll notice that the inside is, which indicates that it was removed regularly. She didn't remove it for work since well, the state of her nails don't indicate she used her hands much. So… One possible reason would be that she had a string of lovers,' _ring, check, _'Her coat…' but he was cut off by a new voice.

'She's Germen.' said the man who'd previously lectured John about the contaminating the crime scene, apparently he was in charge of forensics and was called Anderson, 'Rache, is German for revenge…'

'Oh do shut the door, John.' Sherlock said making a futile effort to shut the door on the other man's face for his hands passed right through it. At this point, John was so confused he abandoned all thoughts and did exactly what he was told to do; he shut the door right on Anderson's face, earning a satisfied grin from Sherlock.

'So you don't think she's German,' the detective inspector asked instead.

'Er… But she was from out of town… Er, she was from… Cardiff?' John said, looking at his phone, and then held it up for the detective inspector to see, 'Yeah, her coat is wet, but not her umbrella. Her collar is wet too so most likely she had it up… So, dry umbrella, wet collar… Oh, yeah, the wind was too strong to use an umbrella. She couldn't have travelled for too long because her clothes are still wet so she must have travelled for most likely 2 hours or something.' John paused here, surprised at himself for saying so much, and then continued on, 'So looking up the weather forecasts for heavy rain and strong wind around a 2 hour radius from here – Cardiff.' John finished, rather pleased with himself.

'Okay, so what about the note?' asked Lestrade.

'Note?' John repeated, turning around the spot the 'Rache' scratched on the floor, probably using fingernails. Next he looked at Sherlock who said just a single word.

'Rachel' repeated John.

'What?'

'Rachel, she was writing Rachel. Also, there should be a case around here somewhere.'

'Case? What case?'

'A suitcase. There are splashes on her heel that indicate she was dragging a case behind her… A small one going by the amount of splashes.'

'But there was no case.' The detective put in.

'But…' John began but Sherlock interrupted him in between, 'There _has _to be a case. Come on, John.' John watched as Sherlock disappeared through the wall again, returning a second later only to tell John to hurry. Working on autopilot, John's brain devised an excuse and clutching his walking stick, he tried his best to keep up with the now sprinting brunette.

'Small case, must be around here somewhere…'

'Sherlock.'

'Hahaha this is fun…'

'Sherlock?'

'This is…'

'Sherlock!' John all but shouted, thankful that they were in a rather remote alley and that no one heard him, 'Explain.'

Sherlock halted mid-step and turned around to face John. His eyes were wild and excited and he placed his hands on John's shoulder, who felt a chill when he did so. A wide grin played on his face.

'That wasn't a suicide. Oh no, they're murders, all of them, I don't know how, but they are. Ha ha ha we've got ourselves a serial killer. Ooh, they're always hard, you always have to wait for them to make a mistake.' He looked at John with an elated expression only to find the shorter man looking confused and unable to follow.

'Come on, John, her case! Where is her case? Did she eat it? There was someone with her and they took the case. Maybe she left in the car when he brought her here.' And so the hunt started.

At first John was made to follow the excited man up several flights of stairs and look down a rooftop, and then they climbed back down before Sherlock determinedly sped off in a direction, leaving John to keep up as best as he could. Once he'd caught up to the tall man who seemed to be on a sugar-rush, he noticed the brunette was excitedly pointing at a garbage heap.

'What…?' John questioned, not liking where it was heading to. As suspected, Sherlock made the poor doctor search through the heap until he came across a pink suitcase, much to his surprise, though Sherlock looked as if he had expected it to be there all along.

'Come on, John!' said the detective as he sped off once more into the night, leaving a sour faced and muttering John behind who now had to drag that ruddy pink suitcase all the way back to wherever the crazed detective took him next.

_When will this end?_

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**A/N:** Aaaaand that's chapter 3. Kill me now for I know it sucks. Review please.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Aaaand here we are again, another update. This one took me a while. What can I say? I was busy (sleeping).

Just stay with me through this one, it might not be up to your expectations but I will do better next time.

Please read and review! I shall be forever grateful! You know I will!

**Disclaimer:** Do I really need to keep stating this every chapter, that I'm too broke to own Sherlock?

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'Sherlock' John shouted, turning his head right and left, eyes darting everywhere hoping to spot the tall detective, but he was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, and angry, he looked down at the suitcase and scowled.

_Great, now he's left me here with this ruddy pink case. _

He started walking down the empty road, praying that the detective would somehow appear in front of him. He took his time to walk to the main street, and was just debating whether to hop into a cab or not and go home when the telephone in the phone booth next to him started ringing, but before John could do anything about it, a man walked into the booth to answer it. Almost at that very instant it stopped ringing. Shrugging, John walked away, pink suitcase trailing behind him, earning glances from everyone around him. As he walked on, he noticed the telephone in the shop he was passing by started ringing too, but stopped as soon as the attendant went to answer it. _Two times in a row_, John thought, now getting just a little bit suspicious. When it happened for the third time John cursed mentally and walked into the phone booth and cautiously picked up the receiver. He waited a few seconds before speaking into the receiver.

'Hello?' he said. There was a pause after which a muffled voice spoke through the line. Now, John would have inquired who the person was or what he wanted, but instead he found himself being threatened by this mysterious caller, in a very unusual way at that. Within seconds of the call, John saw a car stopping right in front of the telephone booth with the mysterious caller saying all most in queue, 'I'd make some sort of threat, but I think you realize your position.'

Once John got in the car, he was greeted by a woman with a phone stuck to her face, fingers moving constantly across the keypad. John sighed, well aware that asking her anything would be as futile as hoping for Sherlock to show up right then.

_What did I get myself into?_

They were in some sort of a warehouse when the car finally stopped. The woman motioned for John to get off the car, and he obliged, pulling the pink suitcase behind him like dead wait. Stepping out of the car, John saw a man standing in the distance, an umbrella in his hand which he was leaning on nonchalantly. Looking around, John walked towards the man, trying to comprehend the situation and his whereabouts.

'Have a seat, Doctor.' the man said, gesturing towards the empty chair.

'Who are you?' John said instead, a hard expression on his face.

'A bit flashy is it not, that pink suitcase you're carrying?' the man continued with a weird edge to his voice.

'Oh, funny. You know, you could just call me, on _my phone_? I mean very clever and all but…'

'Ah, well, simply taking precaution…'

'Precaution against what?' John said, his eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise.

'You'll see,' the man said, 'Now, tell me, what is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?'

John unconsciously swallowed at that, taking a moment before speaking again, 'Nothing, I don't even know the man.'

'And yet you introduced yourself as his colleague just a short while ago. What are you playing at, Doctor?'

'Tell him you're my friend.' said another voice. John shifted his gaze to the left to spot Sherlock standing just behind the mysterious man.

'Uh… I'm his friend.' John said. The man in front of him looked surprised.

'His friend? Clearly you haven't met this man or you'd know just how unconvincing your statement is.' the man said, scoffing a little.

'Tell him we met at-…' Sherlock began but John interrupted him.

'Er… No, we met at Barts a few times. And then we went out for a couple of-…'

'You met him at Barts? Really doctor, I'd think a man who claims to be a friend of Sherlock Holmes could come up with something better than that. Sherlock Holmes has been missing for well over five months, while you clearly haven't been here that long. Get your facts right, Doctor.' John was intimidated now. His pulse rate was rising and his eyes were darting left and right, scanning the area for exits.

'Alright, what the hell do you want?' he said, looking at Sherlock for an instant, who seemed to be doing his own version of a face-palm. He was disappointed at John.

_Not my bloody fault._

'I'd be willing to pay you a sum of money to ease your way in exchange for information.' The man stated, eyeing John from way up like a hawk eyeing its prey.

'Information?'

'What do you know about the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes.?'

John noticed Sherlock look up at John, trying to say something, but John spoke up before that, 'Er… Nothing at all. And if that that's, then I'll leave now.' He turned around and started walking towards the car.

'Is that loyalty, Doctor?' the man said from behind. John paused, his face going hard, and turned around.

'No, I just don't know anything about that.' John looked at the taller man, his eyes unwavering.

'Ah, the bravery of a soldier.' the man smiled, clearly amused, 'Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think.' Then he reached up to his coat pocket and took out a diary before continuing, 'Post traumatic stress disorder, it says here. Your therapist seems to think you're haunted by memories of war.' The man reached for John's hand, his left one.

'Don't.' John protested.

'Show me.' The man egged him on until John gritted his teeth and placed his hand right above the other man's outstretched palm. The man then studied it for a few seconds before letting it go.

'Fire her. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady,' the man closed in on John, 'You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it. Welcome back.' He whispered the last bit.

'Who the _hell _are you?' John said in a strained voice. In the back he noticed Sherlock had a strange expression on his face, like he'd had an epiphany or something.

'An interested party.'

'Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends.' John said, recalling the man's surprise a while ago at the mere thought of John being Sherlock's friend.

'If you've met him, you'd know the answer to that.'

'Then why are you interest in him?' John asked, his patience wearing thin.

'I worry about him, _constantly._'

Surprisingly enough the mysterious man let John go after that, though not before warning him about the pink suitcase John had with him. 'Oh, and Doctor, if I were you I'd wear gloves while carrying that.' the man had said while walking away, swinging his umbrella back and forth. John, knowing better than to press on the matter, didn't waste any time and got into the car. He was greeted by the woman with the mobile phone plastered to her face who mumbled something that sounded like 'I'm to take you home' without averting her eyes from the tiny device in her hands. He nodded in acknowledgment and then turned to let Sherlock in only to find him missing, again. A quick glance over and it was established that the detective was once again _gone. _So, sighing to himself, the doctor shut the car door and settled into a relatively comfortable position as the car engine roared to life.

An hour later he was sitting at his desk, staring deadpan at his laptop. John looked at the blank box, willing his brain to come up with something to post. The last post he'd made were all to keep Ella, his therapist, from getting on his case. He still didn't believe how this was going to help him at all, and now he had another problem. Things were finally happening to him, but there was no way he could blog about it without revealing something about Sherlock, and he sure as hell didn't want that. So, the doctor let out a long breath and shut the laptop with a soft thud, deciding to put it off until later. There were other issues he had to deal with anyway.

He looked to his left to spot the pink suitcase sitting neatly next to the bed stand. Above everything else, John knew he was withholding evidence and that didn't make him feel good at all, and then there was the thing the mysterious man from before had warned him about, hin fingerprints.

'Damn you, Sherlock.' he said out loud, 'Just what am I supposed to do with that thing?' He wasn't hoping for an answer, and he nearly jumped when heard someone call out to him. Whirling around he expected to spot the detective, instead John found himself face to face with an old woman.

'Doctor…' she said, coming closer.

'Yes, what is it Marge?' for that was her name, Mrs. Marge, an old woman who often visited John, and every time she visited him she asked for only one thing.

'A cup o' tea please, no sugar.' she chimed on, a small smile playing on her aged face. John looked at her for a few seconds, contemplating on whether to shoo her off saying he had other, more important things to do, which he did in fact, but then sighed as he remembered he was probably the only one who could fulfill her wish, and so he set out to make some tea. Half way through he heard the woman speak up again and a new voice joined in. John's eyes widened as he realized who it was. He spun on his heels and marched off to where they were, a thunderous scowl on his face.

'You!' he nearly shouted, 'You! Where the hell did you run off to?'

'John…' the other man began.

'No, oh no you don't! I'm out there risking my neck for you, and what do _you _do?'

'John, let me explain…'

'No, let _me. _You take your ruddy case and get out of my house, thank you. I don't want any more of this…' but the other man cut in before John could finish that.

'John! Listen to me!' John's voice was stuck in his throat as he heard Sherlock shout, his blue-grey eyes were wide open. The man nearly overshadowed the doctor as he stepped closer and then continued, 'John, I'm sorry about what happened earlier I…'

'Er, doctor, if you don't mind, the tea…' Marge cut in making John shift his focus from the towering detective to spot the steaming kettle. He excused himself and hurried off to the kitchen. A few minutes later they were all sitting at the table, Marge enjoying her cuppa' while John sat across Sherlock and glared at the man with all his might.

'Go on then.' he said between clenched teeth.

'John, I don't why it happens or how, but all I know is that there are gaps in my memory where I seemed to have _disappeared_. It's been happening ever since I found myself to be in this _state_.'

'You don't know? You're a detective aren't you. A _consulting _detective. Find. Out.' John was clearly not amused.

'That's the thing, I can't.'

'Of course you can, who's to stop you? You're dead! It's not like you've got a lot on your plate and don't have the time or anything.' John waited for an answer but instead he looked up to find Sherlock with a strange expression on his face, one that John couldn't quite read in time for he changed it the next second and engaged himself in a conversation with Mrs. Marge about trivial nothings, signaling that his conversation with John was over.

_Once again, pointless conversations with Sherlock Holmes. Oh goodie. _

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**A/N: **Thank you for reading this till the end! You don't know how much this means to me, since I'm personally very disappointed with this chapter, no thanks to Mycroft.

Please review~!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Hello people

First of all, I think I'll shift to a once a week update schedule because I have too much going on lately and I have exams the coming month.

Secondly, I want to thank all of you for the amazing reviews. Believe me when I say I'll be grateful, I really mean it. Your reviews mean a lot to me and I could go on and on but maybe you won't want that.

Oh, and yes, in the last chapter I introduced a character named Martha and it was only pure coincidence that Mrs. Hudson shares that name too. So, to avoid confusion I've changed the name of that character (chapter 4) from Martha to Marge.

Also, and though this might be late, Happy Halloween _and _Happy Diwali! I hope you had a wonderful time. ^^

I'll apologise beforehand if this chapter falls short of your expectations.

**Disclaimer:** Haven't I disclaimed enough already?

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'John.'

John blinked out of his train of thought and turned his head to find Sherlock looking at him intently. The seat next to him was empty. _Mrs. Marge left. _John got up and reached for the cup that was sitting on the table, untouched, and went to the kitchen to throw a perfectly good, but cold cup of tea.

'John?' Sherlock repeated, only this time it sounded more like a question.

'Yes, what is it?'

'That case.'

'Yes, what about the ruddy case?'

'Open it.' John sighed, his shoulders tensing for a moment before he let them relax, mentally repeating _keep calm _in his head. He wiped his hands and headed towards the pink suitcase. Just like before, at the crime scene, John followed Sherlock's instructions, or well _orders, _until the detective sat back into a thinking-pose, hands folded and on his lips, as if he was praying for the answer to show up, which of course he wasn't. He was Sherlock Holmes and he didn't do all that.

'John, I need your laptop.' he said after some time.

'My laptop? So you can use a laptop then? So why…'

'John, we don't have much time. This is a serial killer we're dealing with, remember?'

'Right, right. Of course.' John shook his head, questioning himself why he even tried to get something akin to an answer from that man. He took out his laptop from the drawer and placed it in front of the detective who got to work the very next second shooing John away.

'Er, Sherlock?' John asked a few minutes later, 'Can we talk about earlier? Who was that man?' John waited for an answer only to find Sherlock engrossed with whatever he was doing. So John, being John, sighed once again and left.

'John. I need your phone.' Sherlock said a little while later, and John, who was in the process of pacifying a rather distraught little kitten, sticking its head out from one of John's cookie jars, let out a low growl. Though it didn't affect Sherlock in the least, it did scare the kitten into disappearing all together.

'Yes, of course you need my ruddy phone.' he said under his breath as he held his phone out to Sherlock, who looked at John deadpan instead of taking it.

'I need you to send a text.' the man said, and to John it sounded more like a statement than a request.

'But weren't you using my laptop a while ago? You can surely…'

'John, these words exactly.' Sherlock cut in, 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'

'What? You blacked out?'

'What… no! No, just type that out and send it to this number.' Sherlock pointed at a number written across the laptop screen. John typed in the number, hit the send button and then turned to face Sherlock, hoping that maybe this time Sherlock would see it fit to actually explain what was going on and not have John splashing about in dark. Much to his surprise, Sherlock got up, though of course his feet weren't visible, and went near the suitcase and stood there, but did nothing at all except stand there with his hands pressed to his lips in the same way that made him look as if he was praying. A second or two later it hit John and he walked over to where Sherlock stood and crouched down next to the suitcase and opened it.

'How exactly did you know where to find this?' John asked, looking up at the detective who had a small smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

'The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in a _car_. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So, obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. We checked every backstreet wide enough for a car, five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took us less than an hour to find the right skip.'

'Took _you_, you mean.'

'What?'

'No, never mind. Er… Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?'

'It had to be pink, obviously?' Sherlock frowned as he said that, making it seem like the most obvious fact in the world.

'Why didn't I think of that?'

'Because you're an idiot.' That hit a nerve and John tensed up for a second, to which Sherlock merely waved and continued, 'Oh no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look. Do you see what's missing?' the detective said in his ever so low voice.

'From the case? How could I?' said John, letting slip a bit of the annoyance that was building up inside him.

'Her phone! Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one, you just texted it.'

'Maybe she left it home?' John said in a flat tone.

'She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home.' Sherlock was positively smirking now.

'Er… Why did I just send that text?'

'Well, the question is _where _is her phone _now_?'

'She could have lost it?'

'Yes, or-?' the detective waited for John to answer.

'The murderer… You think the murderer has the phone.' John finished and Sherlock gave him a look that roughly said well-done-you.

'Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.'

'Sorry…' John was panicking now, 'What are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?!' Then as if on cue his phone started to ring. John held it up for Sherlock to see the words _'withheld calling'_ flashing on the little screen. They let it ring out before Sherlock spoke up again.

'Few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that but the murderer… would panic.'

'Why aren't we talking to the police?'

'Four people are dead, there isn't time.' Sherlock then proceeded towards the door but turned back and added, 'Well? You coming?'

'Er… Where are we going?'

A while later John was sitting at one of the tables in a restaurant facing 22, Northumberland Street. Sitting across from him Sherlock kept a constant vigil on the street outside. Knowing that there was nothing much he could do, John sighed and turned his back to the window and eyed the flickering candle on the table instead. A few minutes ago the restaurant owner, a tall burly fellow who introduced himself as Angelo, had come up to him upon which Sherlock had instructed John to introduce himself as the detective's friend. The subsequent events were hard for John to comprehend as he watched the man visibly break down into tears and tell John about how he and Sherlock had met and how Sherlock had got him off a murder charge and had cleared his name, to which Sherlock added 'cleared it a bit' in a flat voice. John sat through the whole thing with a sympathetic smile, not knowing what else to do, and didn't utter a word as Angelo brought a candle for the table and said in a teary voice 'Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free.' and left with a final sniffle. John turned his head and glared fixedly at Sherlock, waiting for some sort of explanation.

'That was Angelo. Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a different part of town, house-breaking.' Sherlock said in the same flat, bored tone, his eyes never leaving the street.

'What did you mean by 'cleared it a bit' ?'

'Well, he _did _go to jail.'

'Oh…' John said in between bites, and then continued, 'Alright then, now will you explain?'

'Explain what?' Sherlock glanced at him for a second or two before staring back at the street.

'Well for starters, who was that man from before? The one who I, if I'm not wrong, potentially _kidnapped_ me.'

'The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. Next?'

John let out a shaky breath but continued nevertheless, 'Okay, you have me do most of the stuff but you can still use my phone and my computer. How?'

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at John again. 'Well, it's not like I pass through everything I touch you know. I _am _sitting right now, aren't I? Just that it requires energy to interact with the physical world, with the amount of energy required directly proportional to the nature of the interaction. For example…'

'Yes, I think I get it.'

'Do you?' Sherlock didn't seem convinced at all.

'Yes, I do. Besides there's another thing I want to know, though I did ask you about it before.'

This time Sherlock turned around to face John fully before continuing, 'John, I need you to understand something. I know I'm in this state right now and judging by the way people react upon hearing my name you would be thoroughly convinced about that, but the truth is I'm not really-…' But he stopped speaking and John turned his head to find him looking outside the window instead, eyes fixed at a particular point. John looked outside and spotted a cab parked right outside. The passenger looked back for a brief instant and then looked in front and signalled the cabbie just before the cab started moving again.

'Come on, John!' Sherlock said, already half way through the door. John made a face, put his fork down with a soft clang and rushed out, trying his best to keep up with the detective's long strides. Then suddenly Sherlock stopped and poor John ran right through him, shivering all over as he felt immeasurably cold. Turning around he looked at Sherlock who seemed to be calculating something. A second later they were running again, Sherlock leading and John trying to desperately keep up. They nearly parkoured several blocks, up and down the steps, jumping over parapets, from one building to the other, until they reached a street just in time to see the cab whizz past them.

'I've got the number…' John said in between pants.

'Yes, very good. This way!' Sherlock said as he set off once more. They ran another couple of blocks before John saw Sherlock slow down, push something in his hand and then hurl him at the oncoming cab that screeched to a halt. John's mind was blank and his heartbeat was furious, so naturally his speech and everything were on autopilot.

'Police!' John heard Sherlock shout and he did the same, involuntarily lifting his hand up which just happened to have a police ID in it. John made a mental note to ask Sherlock about that later. He rushed to where the passenger was and pulled the door open and stepped back just a little bit to let Sherlock examine him while trying his best to look like an officer.

'No… No! Teeth, tan… What Californian?' John heard Sherlock say and turned to the man and asked in a stern voice, 'Are you from California?'

The man looked puzzled and said in an American accent, 'Yeah, I'm from L.A., Santa Monica. I arrived just now… Er… Sorry, are you guys the police?'

'Yes…' John showed him the badge. In the background he heard Sherlock mutter something and decided to convey the same to the man in front of him, 'Er… This seems to be your first trip to London… Judging by the route the cabbie was taking you and your final destination.' he paused and then added with a strained smile, 'Welcome to London… Er, if you have any problems just let us know.' and then stepped back and closed the door. As the cab drove away he turned around and walked up to the disappointed looking detective.

'Basically just a cab that happened to slow down.' John said as he caught up to the man.

'Basically.' Sherlock said turning around.

'Not the murderer.'

'Not the murderer, no…'

'Wrong country, good alibi.'

'As they go…'

'Hey, where did you get this?' John said holding up the police badge. Now that he got a clear look at it he read the name on the ID 'Detective Inspector Lestrade.'

'Yeah,' Sherlock said, 'I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You keep that, you're gunna need it.' John gave a dry laugh at that and looked back just in time to notice the passenger from before talking to a police officer, an actual police officer.

'Got your breath back?' he heard Sherlock say.

'Ready when you are.' And once again they were dashing down the streets of London. A few minutes later they realized it would be impossible to go back to John's temporary residence now that they were actually being chased and Sherlock halted for a second before leading John through a set of alleys until they reached a road. Crossing it they reached a door that said '221B'. Sherlock instructed John to press the door-bell. A few seconds later an old woman opened the door. John went with the same introduction that he was Sherlock's friend and ten minutes later he was sitting at a table sipping warm tea and engaging in polite conversation with the woman who had introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson.

'Would you like to see his flat?' she said as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

'Oh, if it's not too much of an inconvenience.' he said, though not sure whether he wanted to or not. Beside him he noticed Sherlock had an unreadable expression on his face. They went up a flight of stairs and John waited for Mrs. Hudson to open the door and let him in.

As John walked in the first thing he notices was the untidiness of it all. In the background he heard Mrs. Hudson say that she had left the things just as they were, which explained the layer of dust that had settled on top of the things in the moderately sized flat. He walked to where the kitchen was and almost did a double take for it looked more like a laboratory than an place to cook food. S

'Well then, I'd leave you umm…' she didn't continue and John saw fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes. John gave her an understanding nod and she took one last glance around her before heading downstairs. John spoke up only after he'd heard her door shut.

'So this is…' he began, unsure what to say.

'This is where I stayed, yes.' Sherlock said, point blank.

'I see… But well, this is in a prime spot. Must've been expensive.'

'Well, Mrs. Hudson, she'd given me a special deal. Owes me a favor… A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.' Sherlock said, adding the last part as if it was small deal and had nothing to do with a man's life.

'Sorry, you stopped her husband from being executed?' John on the other hand took this very seriously.

'Oh, no.' Sherlock said, looking at John as though it was stupid to assume that, 'I ensured it.'

John was about to say something when he heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the steps again. She entered through the door and looked around hesitantly before speaking.

'Dr. Watson, I know it would seem terrible of me to say this but, this flat is perfectly habitable, though it might need some cleaning up…'

'I'm sorry, but are you asking what I think you are?' John said, surprised.

'It's been over five months since Sherlock's…' she trailed off, and then continued again, 'I just wanted you to know. It's up to you to decide.'

'Well, John? You do need a residence of your own, and one that's not too expensive.' John heard Sherlock say once Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot, though why that concerned him, John didn't know.

'Yes but, I can't just move into your flat!'

'And why not?', Sherlock asked, moving around the flat, 'You could sort things up a bit and it would be as good as new.' he finished with a salesman smile, but before John could say anything he continued, 'Oh, and have you noticed? Something's missing.'

'Missing? What…' and that's when John felt how empty his hands felt. He looked down and then back at Sherlock who was positively grinning now.

John's walking stick was _gone_.

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**A/N: **Another down, god knows how many more to go. Please review. I'd surely love that.


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